


Protector

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Travels [59]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: (as effective as possible for a medieval setting and during a fight), Blood, Blood and Injury, Bows & Arrows, First Aid, Fluff, Gen, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 23:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7457392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theron gets an arm badly injured in a fight so he can’t use his bow and is a sitting duck, Zev stays close and makes sure no-one gets near his <i>amor</i> to hurt him further, and gladly disposes of anyone who tries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protector

**Author's Note:**

> Credit where it’s due: http://luminositylayer.tumblr.com/post/146820036992/maonethedwarf-heres-a-thought-what-if-hanzo The initial spark of this idea.  
> Shoutout to Scorparius for helping me with medic-related stuff (and also terrifying me with gas gangrene), and the people who turned up to the livestreams I did of this!

Theron paced the fringes of combat, alternating his gaze between friend and foe as he drew back the string of his bow. A breath, and then each arrow was loosed into his targets and make the fight one hit closer to a victory. He didn’t focus on trying to kill with his shots, only to hinder and allow the melee fighters to land more effective killing blows. He kept moving, only standing for long enough to sight his next target and send an arrow in their direction before he circled onwards in search of the next clear shot.

Eventually he ended up several paces behind Alistair, an arrow nocked and ready to be drawn back and loosed at the dwarf bandit he was fighting when there was no risk of Alistair getting hit. He watched intently for any sign of an opening as the two combatants whirled around each other, Alistair’s shield absorbing the heavier blows and his armour or sword able to deflect the weakest ones.

Theron watched and waited, and then drew the bowstring back. He was about to loose the arrow at the bandit when Alistair tensed and abruptly moved to one side, as if dodging something. Theron’s gaze was focused on the bandit, so he couldn’t hear or see any sign of a spell, or whatever the projectile was. Then he realised he was standing directly behind Alistair and that whatever his fellow Warden had just dodged would likely hit him instead. In the time it took him to shift his weight to his other foot to dodge out of the way as well, it was too late.

His bow arm was jerked back from some kind of impact, and the arrow he’d nocked went sailing away into the sky as his other arm automatically released the tension. His bow fell to the ground with a clatter, and Theron stared in shock at the arrow now skewering his bicep. A bodkin arrow, the tapered end meant to puncture metal rather than flesh. And it was sticking straight through his unprotected arm, the metal head and few inches of wooden shaft coated in his blood, the fletching on the other end quivering with every movement of that arm.

He blinked in surprise and then frowned at it - it had no right to be there, after all. Then the pain built, and his brain realised _there was an arrow sticking clean through his left arm_. Theron let out an involuntary choked noise of pain, the fight in front of him forgotten as he carefully put a hand over the embedded part of the arrow. It hadn’t gone deep or struck bone, obviously; if he pressed down he could feel the foreign hardness of the wooden shaft just under his skin. He could also feel the blood flowing from the two open wounds, dripping down his arm and onto the ground beside his feet or into the glove of his left hand.

He swore furiously to himself, tears of pain starting to blur his vision. He blinked them away, and tried desperately to refocus on the fight as his thoughts raced. It was his bow arm; he wouldn’t be able to hold his bow like this. Lucky it hadn’t been a broadhead arrow designed to take chunks out of a target - he’d both seen and used them to shatter bone or gut a target in one shot. A bodkin was relatively neat, in comparison. Like needle through a cloth. Creators, there was an arrow through his arm. Not embedded, but cleanly through it.

Theron scanned the battle again, watching his friends continue fighting, and became aware of exactly how vulnerable he’d become out on the fringes, unable to defend himself. He stooped and picked his bow up with his draw hand - his right hand - and that made him feel vaguely safer as the pain throbbed up and down his other arm.

Soon enough, his gaze found a blond whirlwind of dual blades and death, and he watched as Zevran easily cut down another foe and bought himself a few moments to reorientate himself before throwing himself back into the fight. But rather than do that, Zevran seemed to have sensed his gaze, because the blond turned to look over the field in turn until their gazes locked.

Theron stood there, feeling the blood run down his injured arm and his bow useless in his off hand, and hoped his silent, desperate plea for help wouldn’t be ignored.

Zevran stared at him a moment, eyes widening in shock as they no doubt took in the injury, and then the blond was weaving his way through the fight towards him. Theron let out the breath he’d been holding and looked over the rest of their foes. Most were otherwise engaged - he could see four melee fighters ranged around Sten who stood back to back with Alistair now, but there were a few who weren’t. And there was one in particular, a rogue that Theron _hoped_ wasn’t the same one who’d just impaled his arm, that had also spotted his predicament and was closing in like a wolf, her own blades drawn.

Theron judged the distance; she would reach him before Zevran, but the least he could do was buy Zevran a few precious seconds. He glared at the woman even as he began to take careful steps away, wondering if his aiming skills would extend to throwing a rock or perhaps even his precious bow.

“Creators, I’m useless without this thing.” He muttered even as he gripped the useless piece of wood and watched the rogue continue her approach warily as he kept backing away. He could feel the blood starting to soak into the fur lining underneath his wristguard.

She’d nearly reached him now, was picking up speed to make a lunge at him until a tanned, weathered hand yanked her back by her loose hair. Her yell of pain was turned into a hoarse exhalation when the point of a blade suddenly burst from her stomach, and it trailed off into a wet gurgle as a second blade neatly flicked across her bared throat a heartbeat later. Her body sagged, the blades withdrew themselves and Zevran stepped neatly over her collapsed body, his expression tense and almost stern.

“How bad is it?” The blond asked, staring at the arrow wound but not daring to touch it.

“I don’t think I’ll be fighting again today. But better my arm than Alistair’s chest.” Theron shrugged, and then winced at the spike of pain as the arrow was jostled. Bad idea.

“Then I’ll cover you.” Zevran decided firmly, not that Theron wanted to argue with him. “We are still outmanned.” He added as he turned on one heel to place himself between Theron and anyone else who might have decided the wounded archer would make an easy target.

“I know.” Theron replied grimly. “But this needs attention right now. I need to stop the bleeding.” He exhaled sharply through his nose, thinking. If Zevran did keep an eye on him and stop a foe from coming near him, that might give him enough time to at least slow the bleeding… “Keep watch.” He asked. Zevran looked over one shoulder and met his gaze.

“ _Amor_ , I will not let anyone touch you, I swear it.” He answered solemnly, and tightened his grip on the hilts of his dagger.

With that Theron began to dig around in his pack for bandages. It was difficult with one arm, but with one end in his teeth he managed to tie a tourniquet a few inches above the arrow and then tear the rest of the bandages free. His attention was focused on that, but he still looked up at the sound of clashing blades nearby to watch cautiously as Zevran fended off an attacker.

The first step done, he waited until there was another moment of relative quiet before he called Zevran back over.

“I’m going to need your help with this part, I can’t do it one-handed.”

The blond chuckled.

“I’ve always dreamed of hearing those words from you.” Zevran smirked, and despite the pain Theron only shook his head in mild irritation at the joke. He was only trying to lighten the mood, after all.

“Afterwards, when we’ve both survived this, you can spoil me all night long however creatively you want. Right now, though, you’re going to have to break off the fletching for me.” He gestured to the inches of arrow that hadn’t gone through his arm.

Zevran sheathed his blades reluctantly, and stepped even closer. He grasped the arrow firmly with both hands, one at the end near the fletching and the other down near where the wood was embedded in Theron’s arm to keep it steady. Theron looked over Zevran’s shoulder out at the battle, forcing himself to keep an eye out rather than give into the temptation to look down.

“Three… Two… One.” He instructed, keeping his breathing steady even as Zevran’s efforts moved the arrow. Then there was the sound of splintering wood, and the fletched end came away in Zevran’s hand. Theron let out a strained whimper of pain and closed his eyes against more tears.

“You have done well, _amor_.” He heard Zevran murmur in front of him, and he blinked his eyes open in time to see Zevran lean in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek before he pulled back and turned towards the fight. The fletching was dropped to the ground, and there was the hiss of metal being unsheathed. “You can manage the rest by yourself, yes?”

“Of course.” Theron answered, already starting to pick loose splinters off the end of the arrow so they wouldn’t get stuck inside his arm somewhere to breed infection. “You go back to killing people, _lath_.”

“That’s what I do best.”

Once Zevran was pacing away to intercept another bandit, Theron pulled his bloodstained glove off and placed it carefully in his mouth. With the overwhelming taste of dusty leather and cloying hints of his own blood, he bit down as he began to carefully pull the remainder of the arrow shaft through his arm. It was a slow and excruciating process, and the pain of the movement made him feel sick.

Then it was free of his arm, covered in blood, and he tossed it away in disgust. Now the raw open wounds throbbed and bled even harder, but he was only halfway done. Keeping the glove clenched between his teeth, he reached next for his waterskin and uncorked it with a squeak. He didn’t exactly have the time to boil any water, so the rest of his drinking water would have to do for now.

He hissed in pain as he poured water onto the entry wound, washing away the worst of the blood and whatever clinging debris there was and then rotated his arm to do the same to the exit wound. This time, due to the angle, he could feel water trickle _inside_ the open wound, and the burning pain made him tense and grit his teeth harder against unyielding leather to muffle a yell of pain.

When he finished, he was breathing heavily and the pain in his arm made him want to scream, but the wounds were as clean as he could get them in the middle of a fight. Two small circular holes, the exit wound a little more ragged-looking than the entry wound where the skin had been forced to split outwards. Proper care like a thorough cleaning and possible stitches would have to wait until they had a moment to rest.

He took a second to tighten the tourniquet that had started to loosen, and next awkwardly fished around in his pack for elfroot poultices and the bandages he’d hastily stuffed away. Somewhat awkwardly he managed to keep the poultices in place over the two wounds as he wrapped the bandages tightly around them. And then finally, _finally_ , he’d done as much as he was capable of doing mid-battle.

Theron took a heaving breath in as he spat his glove out into his right hand and shakily pulled it back into place on his left hand, leaving smears of blood. He was starting to feel light-headed now from the shock of blood loss and the rush of battle, but he remained standing and watching the fight despite it, alert once more. The pain sharpened his senses, made him aware of the clanging of blades against other blades or armour, the grunts of efforts and the cries of the dying - thankfully none of those seemed to be from the members of his party.

He absently pulled the tourniquet off as he counted how many bandits were left, letting the strip of cloth flutter to the ground as he carefully picked his bow up a second time and felt the worn grip press against his off hand. Once again his gaze found Zevran as he fought yet another rogue - this time face to face. They were a blur of leather and blades, caught in a lethal dance that would leave one or both of them dead at the end. Theron swallowed, hoping it wouldn’t be Zevran who fell. Not when he was unable to use his bow and help. Not when Zevran was doing his best to protect him.

The fighting was quick, almost too quick for him to follow at this distance, but he could hear the noises of pain as blows landed and blades cut against leathers and skin. Despite Zevran’s skill, his opponent’s blades still ended up covered in blood from minor cuts that were barely dodged. Despite the other rogue’s skill, Zevran still proved victorious with a dagger to the throat in a movement so sharp Theron didn’t realise it had happened until Zevran had shoved the rogue to the floor to bleed out into the dirt.

Theron allowed himself to breathe then, the tightness in his chest easing only a little as he took in the sight of Zevran covered in blood that wasn’t just his, blades at the ready to find another target and keep his lover out of further harm’s way. Theron couldn’t help a faint smile of relieved appreciation at the act, even as his wounded arm throbbed and demanded his attention. To think Zevran had gone from actively trying to kill him to being a defender and protector.

Theron sighed, and forced the smile away as he focused back on the fight - not that there were many bandits left standing by now. He was still useless with one arm incapacitated, but this time there was no bolt of fear as he stood on the fringes of battle to watch Sten decapitate a rival warrior who seemed to be the last opponent.

The tension of the fight eased slowly after that, replaced with the weary relief of a hard-won victory. Theron wasn’t too surprised when Zevran made another beeline for him, or when his lips were captured in a fierce kiss, Zevran’s hands tangling themselves familiarly in his braids.

“Glad to see you’ve survived another fight.” Theron grinned when they parted, but their bodies were pressed close.

“I might be the one in need of your help whenever we rest.” Zevran shrugged, looking down at the weakly bleeding cuts he’d gained. “But that is not important, how are you feeling?” He asked, golden eyes earnest as he studied Theron’s bandaged arm and the blood that was beginning to stain the white cloth.

“Much better, thanks to you.” Theron decided, leaning his head forwards so their foreheads touched in the brief moment of peace they’d found. It was only then that Zevran seemed to relax, his shoulders drooping and a tired smile pulling at the corners of his lips. They were safe, they all were.

“I am glad to hear it, _mi amor_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback of any sort is greatly appreciated!  
> Translations  
>  _Mi amor_ \- My love  
>  _Lath_ \- Love


End file.
